ey expect?

Maud knew that, to use the conventional language of the world in which
they moved, "she had treated Dick ill." We think very lightly of these
little social outrages in the battle of life, and yet I doubt if one
human being can inflict a much deeper injury on another than that
which deprives the victim of all power of enjoyment, all belief in
good, all hope for the future, all tender memories of the past. Man
or woman, we ought to have some humane compunction, some little
hesitation in sitting down to play at that game from which the winner
rises only wearied with unmerited good fortune, the loser, haggard,
miserable, stripped and beggared for life.

It was owing to no forbearance of Lady Bearwarden's that Dick had so
far recovered his losses as to sit down once more and tempt fortune at
another table; but she turned to him nevertheless in this her hour
of perplexity, and wrote to ask his aid, advice, and sympathy in her
great distress.

I give her letter, though it never reached its destination, because I
think it illustrates certain feminine ideas of honour, justice, and
plain dealing which must originate in some code of reasoning totally
unintelligible to ourselves.

Dear Mr. Stanmore,

You are a true friend, I feel sure. I have always
considered you, since we have been acquainted, the truest
and most tried amongst the few I possess. You told me
once, some time ago, when we used to meet oftener than
we have of late, that if ever I was in sorrow or difficulty
I was to be sure and let you know. I am in sorrow and
difficulty now--great sorrow, overwhelming difficulty. I
have nobody that cares for me enough to give advice or
help, and I am so very, _very_ sad and desolate. I think I
have some claim upon you. We used to be so much
together and were always such good friends. Besides, we
are almost relations, are we not? and once I thought we
should have been something more. But that is all over
now.

Will you help me? Come to me at once, or write.
Lord Bearwarden has left me without a word of explanation
except a cruel, cutting, formal letter that I cannot
understand. I don't know what I have said or done, but
it seems so hard, so inhuman. And I loved him very
dearly, very. Indeed, though you have every right to say
you don't believe me, I would have made him a good wife
if he had let me. My heart seems quite crushed and
broken. It is too hard. Again I